“Is your shoulder paining you?” she asked him tentatively.
“Nothing could pain me now.” A charming grin curved his lips, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I feared this day would never come.”
Her heart gave a pang. So much love for him filled her. “I am sorry we had to wait so long.”
Though he had wanted a hasty wedding, his recovery had taken time. He had stepped down from his role as leader of the Special League, and she was heartily glad for it. No more danger would chase them ever again.
He drew her into his arms then. “The wait was more than worth the reward, my love.”
She cupped his face, gratitude rushing over her anew that he was alive and that he was hers. “I love you.”
His smile turned tender. He feathered a sweet, fleeting kiss over her lips. “I love you, my wife, my love, my duchess, my heart.”
“You did not always speak of me in such glowing fashion,” she could not resist teasing him. “Do you recall that first day? You called me Miss Killjoy.”
“What an arse I was.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It is a miracle you deigned to return. I was right about the joy half of the word, however. You are the source of all mine.”
“And you are mine, Benedict.” How she meant those words. Today had been the happiest of her life. Knowing she was his forever, and that he was hers, filled her with a new sense of wonder.
The warmth burning inside her burst into flame as longing pooled between her thighs. They had not made love since the night she had spent in his bed at Westmorland House, seemingly a lifetime ago. She pressed her mouth to his once again. He instantly deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding along hers.
She opened for him, eager for more.
His delicious scent inundated her. He groaned when she sucked his tongue, and she slid her fingers into his thick mane of golden hair. Her nipples tightened. The need built steadily as she nipped the fullness of his lower lip.
He broke the kiss, staring down at her with storm-tossed-sea eyes. “My Love, my own. If you do not take care, this evening will be over before it has begun. It has been far too long since I last had you in my bed.”
Her hands drifted to his shoulders, relishing the warm strength of him. “For a man who proposes to despise poetry, you certainly do speak a lot of it.”
“Minx.” He kissed her again. “I still think it is all lovesick twaddle.”
Her husband did not fool her.
She could not suppress her smile. “I caught you reading the volume from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know, Your Grace.”
“So you did, Your Grace.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Mayhap I was bored on the train ride here.”
“Is that so?” She caressed down his chest. He was so vital. So powerful. She vowed to never again take him for granted. To always be thankful for his presence in her life. For his love. “I suppose I should have done a better job at distracting you.”
“You distract me endlessly.” He kissed her cheek. “Deliciously.” Her ear. “Wickedly.” The sensitive patch of skin beneath it. “I read the poetry so I would not toss up your skirts and ravish you in the railcar.”
Her right hand paused over his heart, absorbing its steady thumps. “Perhaps I wanted you to ravish me.”
“If it is a ravishment the duchess wants, then a ravishment she shall have.” Sensual intent simmered in his baritone. He caught the hand over his heart. “Feel what you do to me.”
With her free hand, she found the belt keeping his dressing gown in place and tugged. It gaped, revealing his bare chest and the lean plane of his abdomen. But also revealing his long, thick cock jutting proudly outward. She grasped him boldly, wrapping her fingers around his shaft.
“I do feel it,” she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss him again.
The luxury of touching him so freely was not lost upon her. Nor was the delicious weight of him. His hips rocked forward. He kissed her back, hard. She savored the bruising intensity, stroking him from root to tip. A low growl sounded in his throat, telling her he liked what she was doing.
So she thrust her tongue into his mouth and did it some more.
He ended the kiss and tore off his dressing gown in two savage motions. The scars on his shoulder were still pink and new, though they had healed. She kissed him there on the everlasting symbol of the day he had saved her life, reverently, gently. All the while, she continued to stroke him.
“I love you,” she said against his skin.
“And I love you, my sweet darling.” His fingers began to work upon the line of buttons fastening her dressing gown. “Blast it, Isabella, I thought I told you no more buttons to your neck.”
She laughed at his teasing. “It is not black, however.”
“No, it is not,” he agreed. His hands trembled as he worked the buttons free. “An improvement, to be sure. But not as good as this.”
Tenderly, as if he unwrapped a precious gift, he slid her dressing gown from her shoulders. Beneath it she, too, was naked. His hands were upon her, then. Cupping her breasts, fingers stroking her puckered nipples. Caressing the curves of her waist, her hips. Liquid seeped from the head of his cock as she grasped him more firmly. She slicked it over the crown with her thumb.
On another low sound of pleasure, he began moving them as one to the bed. Their lips clung, hands roaming everywhere. In a blur of sweetly escalating desire, she found herself on
